


Initium Sapientiae

by mikkey_bones



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friendship, Gen, Hipsters, Intelligent Dance Music, Pretentious, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, <i>on the origins of µ-ziq</i>, in which Marius introduces himself to Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac introduces him to Enjolras, IDM, and the college lifestyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Initium Sapientiae

**Author's Note:**

> To give credit where credit is due, these characters/characterizations are the result of [Ali](http://poisonandperfection.tumblr.com/) & I screaming incoherently at each other over tumblr for nearly a month now. (Also, she started it.)
> 
> Title comes from the Brick, vol. 2, bk. 4, ch. 3. For Bossuet's real name I used Laigle, as the boys are in an Anglophonic country (by my choice) and as it's the 21st century (by now, Lesgles would probably be spelled Laigle for convenience anyway, especially if a Lesgles ancestor had emigrated to an Anglophonic country a few generations back).
> 
> For those who haven't read the Brick yet, I deliberately copied the events of Marius & Courfeyrac's meeting (yes, it's that great).

Marius was exiting the men’s restroom, very much lost in his own thoughts, when he was stopped by a shout.  “You, Pontmercy!” a commanding voice said, and Marius turned around to see a tall man with a bald head and neatly trimmed beard leaning against the wall in the hall outside the restrooms.  The man was wholly unfamiliar to him.

“Yes?” Marius asked automatically, because he had been raised to be polite, especially to strangers who knew his name and demanded his attention.

“You are Marius Pontmercy, are you not?” the man asked, hesitating when Marius turned to regard him.  “That is what the label on your backpack says.”

Marius remembered the label his aunt had painstakingly sewn onto his backpack when he began college and blushed.  He had been meaning to remove it in secret for some time.  “Yes,” he said.  “I am.”

The man grinned.  “Good!” he replied.  “I’ve been looking for you.”

“You have?” Marius asked, taking a few steps toward the man and squinting at him a bit, as if that would return his memory.  “Pardon me if I’m being rude, but... do I know you?”

“Not at all,” the man replied jovially.

Marius frowned.  Surely this was some sort of prank.  “Do you know me?” he ventured.  Perhaps this was some acquaintance of that old man Guillenormand – in which case he would have to make a run for it as soon as possible.

“No, I don’t,” the man said, causing Marius’s frown to deepen.  “But you didn’t go to your classes the day before yesterday, were you?”

“I... didn’t, that’s right,” Marius said after some hesitation.  “Do I have a class with you?”

The man’s grin widened.  “You did,” he said, raising both his eyebrows.  “With Professor Blondeau, the old stick in the mud with a bloodhound’s nose.  Malicious, sadistic, like every law professor.”

Marius began to relax.  The stranger was talking about his Theory of Law class, which he had taken on a whim and was considering dropping.

“Now,” the man continued, “Blondeau takes the roll every day, and if you are absent even once, he marks you down a letter grade.  I don’t think that’s entirely in line with the university policy, but he’s old and he gets away with it anyway.  He likes to begin the roll call with different letters of the alphabet, to take people by surprise.  The day before yesterday, he began with the letter P.  Packer, Peregrine... _Pontmercy_.”

Marius shifted awkwardly.  “I was busy, that day–” he began, but the man held up his hand to quiet him.

“Let me tell my story,” he said.  “To continue: Blondeau will call your name three times before he marks you officially absent, and your grade takes the fall.  ‘Pontmercy?’ he said.  I was beginning to think that Blondeau would be disappointed, that he would not get to mark anyone down, but as he called your name a second time I began to worry.  This Pontmercy, I thought to myself, is surely a noble sort.  Someone who disdains coming to class – someone who, undoubtedly, has better things to do.”

Marius opened his mouth to speak again but was shushed a second time.

“What boldness, to stand up to the mighty Blondeau in such a way... or perhaps, what naiveté.  Perhaps this Pontmercy fellow was a freshman, I thought.  New to the cruel realities of university life.  And so, when Blondeau called your name a third time, I raised my hand and said, ‘Here.’  That is why you were marked as present, and your grade saved.”

“Oh,” Marius said, wide-eyed.  “Thank you!”

The stranger held up his hand for silence once more.  “And,” he added, “that is why my grade was not.”

Marius frowned.  “What?”

“Blondeau knows my face,” the man said.  “At least, I think he does, for once he finished with the P’s, he maliciously switched to the L’s, and my name is Laigle.  When he called my name, I replied, ‘Here!’ just as I had done for you.  But I,” he said, gesturing at his features, “have a face to be remembered, and Blondeau certainly remembered me.  ‘If you are Pontmercy,’ he said, for by now he knew my deception, ‘then you are certainly not Laigle.’  And with that, he crossed my name off his attendance sheet.”

Marius was horrified.  “Oh!” he said.  “I’m so sorry!  We can go to his office hours or something, I am sure–”

He was silenced once more by Laigle.  “No more of that.  Blondeau is a sad, cold, smelly man, easy to eulogize because he is as one already dead.  Here lies Blondeau, the angel of the roll call.  God crossed him off as he crossed me off.”

“I really _am_ sorry,” Marius insisted.  He was blushing bright red.  “I’ll take the grade cut, I assure you.”

“Remember this as a lesson,” Laigle said sternly, threatening him with a finger.

“Thank you so much,” Marius said earnestly.  “If there’s anything I can do–”

The man burst out laughing.  “It’s I who should be thanking you, really,” he said.  “Honestly!  Imagine me, a lawyer!  Taking all the tests, going to school for four more years to wear a suit, work for a corporation.”  He shook his head.  “It’s a sign, I think, that I’m not cut out for the bar or the stand!  I will have to invite you to dinner to truly show my gratitude.  Where do you live?”

Marius frowned, hesitated, and then sighed.  “At the moment?  In my car.”

Laigle appeared unfazed.  “That’s impressive,” he said.  “I don’t even have a car.”

“It’s all right in the day, but the nights are quite cold and I’m not sure where to go...”

“You can live with me,” someone said, stepping out of the restroom and putting a hand on Laigle’s shoulder.  “Sorry about the wait,” he added in an aside.  “Joly is swearing he’s getting hives.”

“By rights _I_ should be taking him home,” Laigle replied.  “But I have no home.”  He shrugged and spread his hands.

The newcomer rolled his eyes.  “Shut up, Bossuet.”

Marius frowned, looking between the two of them and feeling vaguely betrayed.  “Bossuet...?  I thought your name was Laigle.”

“Laigle by name, Bossuet by nature,” Laigle-or-Bossuet replied, exchanging amused glances with the newcomer.

“It’s a long story,” the other man replied.  “I’m Courfeyrac,” he added, holding out his hand.  “You?”

“Marius Pontmercy,” Marius replied, taking Courfeyrac’s hand automatically.  He was feeling rather overwhelmed, first by Laigle-or-Bossuet, and now by this newcomer, who, in corduroys and a gray scarf, was far more fashionable than Marius could hope to be.

Courfeyrac beamed and put his hand on Marius’s shoulder, steering him down the hall.  “Wonderful,” he said.  “Show me to your car, then, and I’ll show you to my apartment.  Bossuet,” he added over his shoulder, “go in there, will you?  Joly’s like to panic, left alone with his imaginary hives.”

Marius watched over his shoulder as Laigle-or-Bossuet disappeared into the men’s restroom, then turned to Courfeyrac.  “Are you sure?” he asked.

“About what?” Courfeyrac, implacable, replied.

“Letting me live with you?  I mean, you don’t even know me.”  Marius was still flabbergasted by this display of charity and not sure how to feel.  It rubbed him the wrong way to take a handout.  “I mean,” he added, “I will pay my rent.  But I...”

Courfeyrac shrugged.  “I know a friend in need when I see one,” he said.  “You look like an upstanding young man, Pontmercy.  And,” he added, favoring his new roommate with a sly grin, “I missed my bus.  I could do with a ride home.”

\---

Courfeyrac asked Marius very few questions, aside from banalities like, “Do you have enough blankets?” and, “How was class today?”  For this, Marius was grateful in part – Courfeyrac was trusting and all around quite nice – but at the same time he worried at his roommate’s lack of suspicion.

For a time, he agonized about how he would answer Courfeyrac should he ask the seemingly inevitable questions, like, “Where are you from?”  “Why are you out on your own?”  He had prepared answers (written in small handwriting in one of his schoolbooks during a thoroughly boring lecture); he practiced his responses laboriously in the mirror.

But no questions came.  Eventually, Marius fell into a sort of rhythm, living in Courfeyrac’s apartment, spending the nights in a sleeping bag on an air mattress in the living room, making dinner every other day, riding the bus to his classes and back.  For a naturally solitary boy like Marius, these living arrangements were a good way for him to keep to himself but not slip into a true sort of hermitage.

Courfeyrac was often gone, too; when Marius asked, he talked about dates, parties, meetings with friends, things in which Marius had never been very interested.

And so the semester continued, with Marius and Courfeyrac keeping mostly to his own sphere of life, until one night in late September when Marius was startled from sleep by a phone call.  He scrambled for it and answered sleepily.  “Hello?”

“Marius,” Courfeyrac said.  “Hello.”  It was hard to make out his voice, what with the amount of background noise.  “Marius, I’m– Grantaire, get _off_ me, no, I’m leaving, _no_ – I’m really sorry, but I’m at my friend’s house, and I want to come home.”

Marius pulled the cell phone from his ear and squinted at the time.  It was nearly two a.m.  “Do you need a ride?” he asked, and sat up on the air mattress.

“If you don’t mind,” Courfeyrac said.  “I’d really appreciate it; I’d have a friend drive but they’re all, they’re all drunk.”  The noise receded and Courfeyrac’s voice grew clearer.  “I’ll be waiting outside,” he said.  “The address is 37 St. Michael Street.  You have a GPS, right?  It shouldn’t be difficult to find.”

“Yes,” Marius agreed, and stood.  “I’ll see you then.”  He almost hung up, but hesitated.  “Are you... all right?”

There was a sniffle on the other end of the line, making Marius raise his eyebrows.  “I’m fine,” Courfeyrac said.  “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“It’s fine,” Marius said.  “I’ll be right there.”  He shut his phone and shuffled across the floor, turning on the lights in the apartment and finding his keys.  It was beginning to get chilly, especially at night, so he threw on a sweater over his pajama shirt and pulled on yesterday’s jeans over his boxers.  In fifteen minutes, he was at the house.  Courfeyrac, true to his word as always, was sitting on the curb outside, and stood when Marius pulled up.

“Thanks so much,” Courfeyrac said, “and sorry for the trouble.”  He slipped into the passenger seat.  Marius waited for him to buckle up and, as he pulled away from the house, watched as Courfeyrac clasped his hands together tightly and fidgeted.

“Is everything all right?” Marius repeated.  Courfeyrac looked... not entirely well; he was more nervous than Marius had ever seen and his eyes were red.

Courfeyrac shot him a watery grin.  “I’m a little drunk,” he said.

Marius accepted that Courfeyrac didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering him, and so they drove several blocks in silence.  Finally, Courfeyrac spoke again.  “Thank you for coming to get me,” he said.  “I’m sorry I’m such a bother.”

“It’s fine,” Marius said.

“I’m a little drunk,” Courfeyrac repeated drunkenly, and scrubbed at his eyes.  “I got into an argument with a few people, things got a little sour...”

Marius gave him a sidelong glance.  “Are you hungry?” he said.  They were approaching a busier part of town, with fast food restaurants that stayed open long into the night, especially on the weekends.

Courfeyrac looked at him.

“Let’s get burgers,” Marius said awkwardly.  He had been watching a lot of movies, lately (luckily, though his grandfather had banished him from the house, he had not banished him from his Netflix subscription), and he had learned that, when people were going through tough times, food always helped them.  Many buddy cop movies ended (or began) with burgers, and while Marius was well-aware that he and Courfeyrac were hardly “buddy cop” characters, it couldn’t hurt.

“Sure,” Courfeyrac said after some hesitation.  “But you drove, so I’m paying.”

Marius, whose finances were becoming dangerously low anyway, nodded.  “That seems fair,” he said, and pulled into the nearest McDonald’s.

“Let’s do the drive-thru,” Courfeyrac said.  “Don’t ever enter a McDonald’s after midnight.  You can never trust the company.”  He seemed to be regaining most of his customary good humor.  “I’ll get a Big Mac with medium fries and a Coke.”

Marius unrolled the window and ordered two medium Big Mac combos with Coca-Cola, which is how the two of them ended up sitting on the wooden floor of Courfeyrac’s apartment, eating McDonald’s, and watching the newest episode of _House, M.D_.

“I still don’t understand why anyone is his friend,” Courfeyrac commented about Hugh Laurie’s character halfway through the episode.  “He’s always criticizing everyone else, he never cares about people’s feelings, he’s just so _blunt_...”

“But he’s right,” Marius pointed out, eyeing Courfeyrac over their twin piles of food.  He wondered how drunk Courfeyrac was right now.

Courfeyrac sighed deeply.  “Yeah,” he said.  “He’s right.”

Over the next few days Courfeyrac didn’t talk about the party from which Marius had rescued him.  But that Tuesday, over dinner, he fixed Marius with a piercing look.  “What are your political beliefs?” he asked.  “If you don’t mind saying.”

Marius shrugged.  His political beliefs had gotten him exiled from that old Guillenormand’s house; it was safe to say that he was confident in his ideals and willing to argue them with a passion.  “Definitely liberal,” he said.  “But independently so.”

“No party affiliation, then.  A mediocre left-winger,” Courfeyrac said.  His evaluation confused Marius, but before he could ask any questions, Courfeyrac continued, “And what’s your favorite movie?”

Marius frowned and thought about it for a while.  “Live-action?” he asked.  “Or animated?”

Courfeyrac shrugged.  “Either, though the fact you had to ask makes this even more interesting.”  He grinned, rested his chin on his hand, and waited.

“The first Pirates of the Caribbean movie,” Marius replied finally.  “Or _Up_.”

Courfeyrac burst out laughing.

\---

The next day, Wednesday, Courfeyrac caught Marius at the bus stop.  “Don’t go home just yet!” he said with a grin, taking Marius by his elbow and towing him back towards the heart of the campus.  “You don’t have plans, do you?” he asked after a moment, his dogged step faltering.

“No,” Marius replied, bemused, “but where are we going?”

Courfeyrac grinned and quickened his pace again.  They headed through the grassy mall into the complex of buildings where most liberal arts classes were held.  “We’re going to a meeting,” he said.

Marius frowned.  “For an organization?”  As it was his first year in college, he had been debating whether or not he should join some sort of organization, but had eventually decided to wait until he was better adjusted.  “What kind of organization?”

“You’ll see,” Courfeyrac said enigmatically, and pulled Marius into Musain Hall, which was the main philosophy building.  They proceeded up four flights of stairs and down a hallway, where Marius slowed down in order to catch his breath.

“Seriously,” Marius asked, looking around nervously.  The hallway was small and papered all around with posters; it seemed untouched by the earlier renovations that had modernized most of the university buildings.  “Where are we going?”

Courfeyrac, of whom Marius was beginning to feel increasingly suspicious, favored him with a rather demonic grin.  “I told you,” he said, as they reached the end of a hallway.  “A meeting.”

The hallway ended with double doors, one of which Courfeyrac pushed open, pulling Marius after him.  “Hello, all!” he said loudly.  The room, which had before been suffused with a pleasant chatter, quieted.  “I brought someone with me.  Everyone, this is Marius Pontmercy.  A pupil.”

Marius frowned at those last words; he was certainly a student, but he hadn’t come here for... tutoring, or anything like that.  He looked around the room.  It was fairly large, for a classroom at the end of a tiny hallway, and instead of desks was furnished with various types of chairs and couches, some more cushioned than others, along with various motley tables and, if Marius wasn’t mistaken, a ping pong table in the back.  The walls were covered with posters of various ages, except for one wall, on which was an ancient chalkboard.

The room, to Marius, appeared full of people, none of whom he recognized.  They were mostly staring at him.

“Come on,” Courfeyrac said.  “Let me introduce you.”  He took Marius’s elbow again and led him towards the chalkboard, where a pair of students sat in rickety wooden chairs around a similarly rickety table.  “Marius, this is Enjolras,” he gestured to the blond one, “and Combeferre,” the bespectacled ones.  “Enjolras is our fearless leader.”  He grinned.

“Nice to meet you,” Enjolras said, holding out his hand.  As Marius took it, he was astonished both by the strength of his grip and the strength of his gaze; Enjolras’s face paired a certain firmness with blond curls and delicate, almost feminine features.

Combeferre took Marius’s hand next, in a considerably gentler grip.  “Courfeyrac,” he asked, “is this your new roommate, then?”

“Courfeyrac’s stray!” someone called from behind them.  Marius turned to see a large, bald man whom he recognized as... “It’s me, Laigle!  Glad to see you again, and in considerably better circumstances, I hope.”

Laigle-or-Bossuet (Marius was still confused by the nickname) grabbed a smaller student by the shoulder.  “This is Joly, my friend.”

“I think you mean _Jolllly_ ,” Courfeyrac said, drawing out the L sounds of his name.

Joly, or _Jolllly_ , was fairly skinny, with a mop of dark hair and a wide smile.  “Nice to meet you, Marius.  What are you studying?”

“I’m a German major,” Marius replied automatically, still more than a little stunned by the number of people who were talking to him, at him, or at least in his direction.  “With a minor in Italian.”

“German and Italian!” Laigle-or-Bossuet repeated.  “Jehan, get over here!  We’ve found you a friend!”  He gestured to the table in the back of the room, the three occupants of which had remained seated.  “Bahorel and Feuilly, you too; don’t be antisocial.”

The three rose to their feet and approached Marius, who found himself stepping a little closer to Courfeyrac.  It had been a while since he had been the center of attention and introduced to so many people he didn’t know.  He stuck his hands in his pockets.  He had already forgotten half of their names.

“Marius, this is Feuilly,” Laigle-or-Bossuet said, presenting Marius with a short-haired, shorter man, who was wearing a scarf and yesterday’s stubble, “Bahorel,” and Laigle-or-Bossuet presented a tall, bulky man with a beard and a wide grin, “and Jean Prouvaire.  Jehan, he’s learning German and Italian.  You two will probably get along.”

Marius stared a little at Prouvaire, who was clad in a floral printed vest paired with dark green skinny corduroys, rolled up past his ankles, and gray Oxfords.  It wasn’t a _bad_ outfit, per se, but it... certainly stood out.  “Nice to meet you,” he said to all of them, then turned his attention to Courfeyrac and Enjolras, whom he remembered having been described as the ‘fearless leader.’

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said uncomfortably.  “Is this... a club?”

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac, who grinned and shrugged.  With a sigh, he turned back to Marius.  “We’re a club... of sorts,” he said.  The others were dispersing, returning to whatever they had been discussing before Marius had been introduced, with the exception of Courfeyrac, who remained glued to Marius’s elbow, and Laigle-or-Bossuet, who had crossed his arms and was regarding the whole scene with great amusement.  “We gather here a few evenings during the week to watch movies, talk...”

“Technically,” Combeferre said, “we’re a film club.”

Marius frowned and looked at Courfeyrac.  “A film... club?” he repeated.  “Is that why you asked me about my favorite movies?”

Again, Courfeyrac grinned and shrugged.

“The club room is ours indefinitely,” Laigle-or-Bossuet interjected, clapping his hand onto Marius’s shoulder.  “That’s one of the perks of having the student body president as our club president.”

Marius gaped at Enjolras.  “You’re the _President_?” he asked.  No wonder he had found Enjolras’s name so familiar.

Combeferre smiled.  “And I’m the Vice President,” he said.  “So we aren’t here all the time.  Club membership varies every day, actually, but those you see here,” he gestured around the room, “are our core members.”

“We’re here pretty often, actually,” Laigle-or-Bossuet said.  “There’s one of us here nearly all the time.”

“And it’s always unlocked,” Courfeyrac said.  “Look around!  I have to talk to these two, but I’m sure you can make friends.”  He smiled and detached his hand from Marius’s elbow.

Feeling like he had suddenly been cast adrift into a strange sea, Marius bit his lip and watched Courfeyrac take a seat at the rickety table, almost immediately falling into animated conversation with Enjolras and Combeferre.

“Don’t look so timid,” Laigle-or-Bossuet said.  “We don’t bite, I assure you, except Jehan, and that was only when he was extremely drunk.”  The joke pulled a weak laugh from Marius.  “Come on, let’s go sit down by these three.”

‘These three’ were the short haired man (Fyoo-something, Marius thought, straining his memory and wishing he wasn’t so terrible with names), the big, burly one, and Joly whose name was pronounced with more L’s than it could possibly be spelled.  Marius gingerly took a seat and listened in.

“Obviously,” Fe... _Feuilly_ , that was it, was saying, “buying Fair Trade products isn’t going to solve the deep, underlying problems with the capitalist structure of agriculture, and it probably doesn’t help that much.”

“Better that than nothing, though,” Joly replied with a frown.  “It’s not as if we can destroy capitalism with a snap of our fingers–”

“Not as if we _want_ to,” the big man (Bahorel?) interjected with a laugh.  “But Feuilly has a point.  The pressure to buy Fair Trade, and the ensuing guilt that comes from _not_ buying Fair Trade products, is in itself a symptom of privilege.”

Marius frowned.  Already, the conversation was beginning to make his head hurt.  He turned to Laigle-or-Bossuet.  “Are you _sure_ this is a film club?”

\---

His introduction to Courfeyrac’s “organization” had been as stressful as it was confusing, so Marius wasn’t actually sure what made him come back.  Maybe it was the atmosphere of the room, so collegiate and yet unlike any other room he had seen on campus.  Perhaps it was the camaraderie that the club members enjoyed and in which Marius, though he was a loner by nature, desired to partake.  Or it could have been his confused fascination with a group that called itself a “film club” but spent all its time discussing politics and capitalism and how to change the world.

Courfeyrac had impressed upon him that it was fine to show up in the room at any time and that someone would probably be there, so on the following Monday, after his classes had finished, Marius trudged up the four flights of stairs, down the tiny hallway, and pushed open the door.

There were only two people in the room this time – Marius recognized one as the club member who was also learning German and Italian, Jean-something.  He did not recognize the other one.  He was about to back away and shut the door when he was noticed.

“Ho, you!” said the person Marius didn’t recognize, waving at him.  “Who are you?  I’ve never seen your face before.  Come in!”  He had a scruffy beard, an unruly mop of curly black hair, and was decidedly unattractive.

Marius stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“That’s Marius Pontmercy,” Jean-something replied.  “Courfeyrac’s roommate.”

“Courfeyrac’s stray!” the man crowed, standing up and making his way across the room to genially shake Marius’s hand.  He was wearing a purple and red plaid shirt that, along with his beard, made him look almost like a lumberjack.  “You were the one who picked him up from that party, weren’t you?  It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Marius blinked at him.  “Yes,” he said.  That was over a week ago.  “You were there?” he added as Grantaire pulled him towards the group of cushioned chairs where he had been sitting with Jean.  “He seemed upset.”

“He was,” Grantaire said, pulling up another chair for Marius before taking his seat.  “Got in a fight with one of his ex-girlfriends and her newest boy.  Had some nasty things said to him, about him... about us, actually, which I think got him more upset than anything...”

“I see,” Marius said, taking a seat slowly.  He looked at the smaller boy, who was today clad in a burnt orange polo with a gray sweater vest on top.  “What’s your name again?” he asked.  “I’m sorry,” he added with a wince.  “I forgot.”

The boy smiled.  “Jean Prouvaire,” he said.  “Nicknamed Jehan.”

“Poet of the ages,” Grantaire added.  “The Alighieri of our times.”

Prouvaire blushed.  “I don’t think so,” he said.  “Last time you came, Bossuet said you were taking German and Italian, is that true?  You’ve read Dante, haven’t you?  And Goethe, of course.”

“Of course,” Marius said, neglecting to mention that he had read them only in translation, not the original language.

“Both parts of _Faust_?” Prouvaire asked, looking hopeful.

“Just the first...” Marius replied.

Prouvaire looked somehow disappointed, and shook his head.  “You should really read the second half too,” he said.  “Goethe spent _years_ making it work, and though it’s a bit unwieldy in places–” (“Unreadable, more like,” Grantaire interjected) “– it’s still a masterpiece of German literature.”

Marius nodded slowly.  “What do you study?”

“Literature,” Prouvaire said.  “In general, though I focus on epic poets like Dante and Goethe.  And Virgil,” he added.  “I’m learning Latin right now.”

“He’s in my Latin class,” Grantaire said.  “We were working on translations of Martial right now.  Have you read anything by him?  Here.”  He handed Marius a scrap of paper.  “Classics is twenty percent epic poetry and eighty percent pornography, and the two often overlap.”

Marius squinted at the crabbed writing on the paper, deciphering it:

_Rumor tells, Chiona, that you are a virgin,_   
_and that nothing is purer than your fleshy delights._   
_Nevertheless, you do not bathe with the correct part covered:_   
_if you have the decency, move your panties onto your face._

It took Marius a few seconds to understand the verse; when he did, he blushed bright red.

“Book three, number eighty-seven.  Hilarious, isn’t it?” Grantaire asked.  “Jehan’s keeping up with us quite nicely, which is impressive, because we’re highly advanced.  I think he’s cut a Faustian deal with the head of the Classics department.  What do you study, Marius?  I missed your entrance last week, though it was all anyone talked about since.”

Marius frowned.  “Really?”  He hadn’t thought he made such a big impression.

“It’s because of Courfeyrac,” Grantaire explained.  “While he is very sociable – _too_ sociable, sometimes, some people think – he doesn’t often bring people here.  Usually that’s Combeferre’s job, or Jehan’s.  We were surprised he thought highly enough of you to introduce you to us.”

“Really?” Marius repeated, though his tone of skepticism was replaced with a flattered incredulity.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Grantaire said.  “This is hardly an exclusive organization, and the stuff they talk about is enough to make the most ardent reformer close his ears and walk away.  It’s all pointless idealism.”

“We’ve been watching music videos, lately,” Prouvaire added mildly.

“Only because Courfeyrac and Bossuet are trying to choreograph a dance to that new song by will.i.am and Britney Spears,” Grantaire retorted.  “It’s actually coming along quite nicely, inasmuch as neither of them is cut out for that sort of dancing.  Bossuet, at least, has neither broken nor sprained anything, and thus we shall consider it a victory.”

Marius laughed a little, feeling, once more, all the way out of his depth.  “I’ve never heard that song,” he said.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows; even Prouvaire looked mildly surprised.  “It plays on the radio at least every hour,” he said.  “What, have you been raised under a rock?”

Marius blushed, painfully aware of his own ignorance.  “I was homeschooled,” he said, because that had worked as an excuse before and would probably work here.

And it did appear to suffice as explanation (though Marius didn’t really understand why); both Grantaire and Prouvaire looked at him with sudden sympathy.

“I see,” Grantaire said.  “Well.”  He grinned.  “We’ll soon educate you, don’t worry.”

Perhaps Grantaire had meant those words to be comforting, but Marius was worried all the same.

\---

A few weeks later, Marius, though he wouldn’t technically consider himself a member of the “film club,” was a regular attendee, and was beginning to grow comfortable in his acquaintanceships and friendships he had made there, to the point that Courfeyrac began to bring friends to the apartment for both his own amusement and that of Marius, and, as in this case, began to take it upon himself to educate Marius about all the important things in life.

Marius was working his way through a laborious German translation when the door to his apartment burst open and Courfeyrac stepped inside, dragging behind him Feuilly and Jean Prouvaire, who was resplendent in a dusky pink coat and black beret.  “Oh good!” Courfeyrac said, catching sight of his roommate.  “I was hoping you’d be here.”

“What’s going on?” Marius asked, looking from Courfeyrac to Feuilly, who appeared determined (and a little terrifying) as usual, and Jehan, who looked bemused.

“Sit on the couch,” Courfeyrac said by way of explanation, coming over to Marius, shutting his book (marking his page first, strangely courteous as always), and ushering him away from the table.  “Jehan, you too.”  Confused, Marius stood and moved across the room to the couch, Prouvaire alongside him.

Perhaps the poet would give him a more sensible answer, Marius thought, well aware of the irony in that statement.  He turned to Prouvaire, muttering, “What’s going on?”

Courfeyrac shushed him.  “Quiet, don’t speak.  We’re on a mission today.”  He sat down at the table and was joined by Feuilly, who slid his Macbook out of his bag.  “We’re going to introduce you to _electronica_.”  He named the genre in a hushed, reverent whisper.

Marius frowned.  Courfeyrac had brought up something like that a few nights ago, but... “I thought you were joking about that,” he said.  Courfeyrac shook his head, looking eminently serious.  “Look,” Marius tried again, glancing at Prouvaire for support.  “We know what electronica is...”

“You know what Owl City and Skrillex are, neither of which can be considered electronica proper,” Courfeyrac replied dismissively, scooting closer to Feuilly so they could look at his Macbook together.  “Skrillex is dubstep, anyway, and Owl City is...”  He made a face.  “Feuilly and I want to introduce you to the real thing.”

“The stuff that plays on the radio is hardly the best of the genre,” Feuilly said, beginning to type.  The computer was facing away from the couch, so Marius couldn’t get a good look at what was going on; resigned, he settled back into the couch.

“How was your day?” Prouvaire asked Marius mildly.  He, too, seemed resigned to this educational experience; Marius reflected that he had known Courfeyrac longer and was probably used to this sort of thing.

Marius shrugged.  “Not bad.  I’ve got plenty of homework, though.  We’re beginning to translate E.T. A. Hoffman, the Nutcracker story, that sort of thing.”

Prouvaire made a sympathetic face.  “Better him than Nietzsche, I think,” he replied.  “I hear he’s practically untranslatable, and I’d have to agree, even though I don’t know German...”

“Alright!” Courfeyrac said, standing and clapping his hands with a delighted grin.  “Quiet, everyone!”  He waited until Marius and Prouvaire fixed their attention on him before continuing.  “We’re going to take you on a tour of IDM, which is short for Intelligent Dance Music.  It’s great.  You’ll love it.”

He gestured to Feuilly, who started playing a song.

“This is by one of the fathers of IDM, the grandfathers, the greats,” Courfeyrac said with shining eyes.  “The band name is pronounced “music” but spelled with a _mu_ , like the Greek letter, and then “z-i-q,” how cool is that?”

Marius looked at him.  Prouvaire, who seemed more willing to indulge Courfeyrac, smiled and nodded.

“Pay attention to how the actual melody provides a repetitive baseline to highlight the drumming,” Feuilly said, and turned the volume of his Macbook up.

Although Marius was trying gamely to pay attention, it all sounded a bit like video game music to him.  “So when does the song actually start?” he asked after a three minute long, repetitious introduction.

Feuilly frowned and Courfeyrac looked horrified.  “This _is_ the song!” he said, wide-eyed and scandalized.  When he only received blank looks from Marius and Prouvaire, he turned back to Feuilly.  “Fine, then.  Next.”

Feuilly stopped the music and brought up another song.  “This one is by Mouse on Mars,” he said.  “Another pioneer of the genre.”

They sat in silence as the song began.  It had a more driving beat than the last, Marius thought.  More purpose.  But it still seemed like the introduction was dragging on and on...

After a few minutes, he turned to Prouvaire and whispered, “Do any of these songs have words?”

“I don’t think so,” Prouvaire whispered back, looking worried.  “I want to like this sort of music, but it’s all so...”

“Boring,” Marius whispered back, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when Courfeyrac clapped his hands loudly together.

“Fine!” he said.  “Next song, please, Feuilly.  I _will_ find IDM that you two enjoy.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes but stopped the music regardless.  “This is by Venetian Snares,” he said.  “It’s a bit newer in the genre.  They’re one of my favorite IDM artists.”

As the music started playing, Marius reflected that it sounded more like a dubstep jazz orchestra than anything, minus the... dubstep.  “This isn’t so bad,” Prouvaire said, a considering look on his face.  Marius would have to agree with him, though only because he felt that this was more classical music than “Intelligent Dance Music,” or whatever Courfeyrac had called it.

“You know,” Feuilly said, looking at Courfeyrac, “I’ve always been a bit hesitant to refer to this as IDM.”

“Venetian Snares?” Courfeyrac asked, looking at him in confusion.  “Because they _are_ undeniably part of the genre, even if they have a more varied range of instrumentation–”

“No,” Feuilly said.  “I mean the genre itself.  Intelligent Dance Music.  Don’t you think that sounds... elitist?  It’s as if, by referring to this sort of dance music as ‘intelligent,’ we’re implying that the rest of dance music, electronica, maybe music in general, isn’t intelligent.”

Courfeyrac frowned and took a seat next to Feuilly.  “Really?” he asked.  “I never thought of it that way.”  He rested his chin on his hand.  “I always felt it was intelligent as in _intentional_ , or experimental.”

“Which exposes your own biases,” Feuilly retorted.  “Because all music is intentional, isn’t it?  And aside from the blandest pop songs, all music is experimental, too.  IDM doesn’t have a monopoly on that.”

Courfeyrac’s face lit up the way it did when he was really getting serious in a debate.  “You have a point,” he said, leaning forward as the music began to speed up.  “But I would argue that IDM was named in order to force a more intellectual approach to this music, as in, it’s not just music that you dance to, it’s music that demands to be approached on an intellectual level in order to be enjoyed.”

“But what _is_ considered an intellectual level?” Feuilly questioned.  He loved debating as much as Courfeyrac; if past debates were any indication, the argument could go on for hours.

“This is dramatic,” Marius commented, settling back in the couch with a sigh and wishing he had taken his German translation with him; his book and papers were sitting on the table directly in the crossfire between Courfeyrac and Feuilly, so there was no way he could fetch them now.

Prouvaire sighed.  “May I get some water?” he asked.  “Courfeyrac dragged me straight off from tutoring...”

“Of course,” Marius said, “if you’re willing to get up and get it yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Prouvaire asked, standing up.

Marius glanced at Feuilly and Courfeyrac, still embroiled in an argument at the table, even though the song had ended (thank goodness).  “You’re a braver man than I,” he replied.

Prouvaire laughed.  “I’ll fetch your homework on my way, shall I?” he asked, crossing the room boldly to fill up a glass of water.  On his way back to the couch, he sidled around the table and slid Marius’s homework out of the no man’s land between Feuilly and Courfeyrac.

Marius grinned as the work was deposited in his lap.  “Many thanks.”

“So what do you think of IDM?” Prouvaire asked, sipping his water.

“But IDM is solely an American phenomenon,” Feuilly was saying at the table.  “It’s only labeled _intelligent_ in the United States and many artists have spoken out against that sort of labeling.”

“I suppose it’s good for some,” Marius said skeptically, opening his book.  “But I don’t think I’ll let either of them DJ for parties, if I have any say in the matter.”

Prouvaire laughed.  “I’ll back you up,” he promised.

\---

“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” Courfeyrac said for what felt like the thousandth time since he had started the evening with a series of tequila shots.  “Don’t think that just because we’re doing something means that you have to do something.  We’re not like that.  If you don’t drink, that’s great!  Don’t force yourself.  Please don’t feel like you have to drink.”

“It’s fine,” Marius said, also for what felt like the thousandth time, ducking out from under the affectionate arm Courfeyrac had thrown around his shoulders.  “I understand.”

Grantaire was leaning on the counter, staring contemplatively at his glass, which, Marius knew, was composed of more rum than Coke (he had seen Grantaire make the drink).  “It’s like we’re peer pressuring him not to feel peer pressure,” he said.  Marius was sure he had heard that sometime that night before, too.  “That’s pretty weird, isn’t it?”

Laigle-or-Bossuet had taken a seat at the kitchen table, along with the remains of the pizza they had ordered for dinner.  “You two are like a broken record whenever you’re drunk together,” he said.  As the designated driver, he was abstaining from all forms of alcohol, which was _one_ thing that was comforting to Marius, who had been extremely uncomfortable since Courfeyrac had announced, earlier that day, that they would go clubbing.

“It’s like that time when we all debated about whether Prouvaire should buy a new pair of Toms, after his old ones wore out,” Courfeyrac replied, grinning at Grantaire and throwing an affectionate arm around him instead, since Marius had slipped away.

“It’s really not,” Laigle-or-Bossuet replied, rolling his eyes.

Marius frowned.  “What’s wrong with Toms?” he asked, confused.

Courfeyrac opened his mouth, but Grantaire covered it with a hand.  “Let’s not get into that,” he said.  “You should have seen Enjolras’s face, though, when Jehan came in with a pair of new ones.”

“And they were glitter,” Courfeyrac said, “which is the only reason I’m sad at all that they disappeared on our lake house trip...”

“It was undoubtedly a conspiracy between Feuilly and Combeferre,” Laigle-or-Bossuet said, nodding sagaciously.

“Mostly because Enjolras couldn’t take his eyes off them whenever Jehan walked into the room,” Grantaire said, his tone tinged with bitterness.  He took a swig of his drink.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes.  “You’re just jealous,” he said.  “Bet you wish you were Jehan’s Toms.”

“I would never let him walk all over me like that,” Grantaire replied seriously.

“Who?” Laigle-or-Bossuet asked.  “Because if you’re talking about Enjolras, that’s a flat out lie–”

“Alright!” Courfeyrac said loudly, clapping his hands to draw all attention to him, as Grantaire looked vaguely murderous and Bossuet callously amused.  “Let’s get going, I think we’ve all had enough to keep us drunk for some time.  And of course, R has his flask.  We’re well-prepared.”

Marius sighed.  Earlier that day, Courfeyrac had shoved him into his nicest pair of jeans and a black button-down shirt, lamenting that Marius had no casually dressy “clubbing” clothes.  Now, he straightened the collar of his shirt.  He had been nervous all evening, but now that the dancing was imminent, his anxiety was getting worse.  He had never been to a club before, but he had watched enough movies to know what to expect... and wasn’t sure whether he would enjoy it.

“Well then,” Laigle-or-Bossuet said, standing as Grantaire chugged the rest of his drink.  “Shall we, boys?”

They exited the apartment and went down the stairs to the parking lot, Courfeyrac, who was a bit unsteady on his feet, with assistance from Marius, and piled into the car, Grantaire in the front with Laigle-or-Bossuet (eventually, Marius thought, he would have to pick which name by which to refer to the man), Courfeyrac in the back with Marius.

“I’m glad you’re here, Marius,” Courfeyrac said, smiling and leaning on him.  Apparently, when he wasn’t in a bad mood, he was a very affectionate drunk.

“That makes one of you,” Grantaire replied, turning in his seat so he could regard the two of them with a grin.  “Nervous, Pontmercy?  I’m sure the girls will love you, with a face like that.”

Marius swallowed.  That was rather what scared him...  “Right,” he said.  He ignored Courfeyrac’s head on his shoulder and looked outside, watching the city lights pass them as they drove.  All too soon, for him, they were downtown and in a parking garage, unloading from the car and preparing to hit the streets.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Courfeyrac said suddenly, taking his elbow and pulling Marius back from the others to whisper in his ear.  “If you’re uncomfortable.  I’m sorry I didn’t say that sooner, but we can go home...”

Marius considered the possibility for a few seconds, slowing so that the two of them fell even further behind.  He would prefer to be in the apartment, curled up on his air mattress with the leftover pizza and maybe _America’s Next Top Model_ , to which Courfeyrac had gotten him addicted, but... the lights were bright downtown, and even though he wasn’t much of a dancer or party animal himself, he did enjoy hanging out with Courfeyrac and the others.  And who knew what could happen?

“No,” he said and smiled.  “I’m fine.”

Courfeyrac looked at him skeptically for a short time, but then appeared to accept whatever he had seen in Marius’s gaze.  “Right,” he said with a grin.  “Then let’s not get left behind!”  He broke into a tipsy run, tugging Marius after him out of the parking garage and onto the sidewalk.

Marius was a solitary boy by nature but, he thought, maybe he could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to write more for this AU. We'll see how this semester treats me. (◡‿◡✿)


End file.
